“I thought you an’ I’d already settled the roles in the fucker/fuckee relationship! I guess I thought wrong!” — Garth Ennis
A woman in her early forties came in, smiling, and started asking me for recommendations for her eleven year old son. She was cheerful, knowledgeable about what her son read, and funny. This is only of note because most parents come in armed with “I have an eleven year old. What is good?” And when I ask what their child reads or what their child’s gender is, or whether their children are sentient humans or two burlap sacks with creepy button eyes and no mouths, they just shrug.
"He’s really into Tolkien right now." She said.
"Ok, have you heard of Bone?" I asked.
She had not, so she listened to my spiel for a couple of minutes and then said “Sorry to interrupt, but I just remembered. He wanted me to get something called Preacher.”
I raised my left eyebrow.
"Is that appropriate for an eleven year old?"
I walked over to my computer and showed her Preacher: The Fuckin Short Version.
She laughed for about a solid minute, and then walked over to the shelf and purchased a copy of Bone #1.